Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
James
Trying to catch the Orange Cyclops feels like the perfect penance for me. And the perfect apology for Winnie.
“A cat is a terrible grand gesture,” Pat tried to tell me last night. “Just like you don’t give puppies as birthday gifts or baby ducks and bunnies at Easter. Plus, he’s not doing your arms any favors.”
I run my fingernail lightly over one of the long scratches on my forearm.
No, OC, as I’ve started calling him, is not doing my arms any favors.
But is it bad that Pat’s disapproval only fueled my determination to catch and tame this cat for Winnie?
If only determination were enough to capture the dang thing.
In case anyone wanted to know, it’s not enough.
I hold out the plastic bowl filled with canned cat food, giving it a little shake toward the cat. “Come here, you big, orange—”
“He’s not going to go for that.”
I curse under my breath as the cat backs away, tail twitching. Big Mo stands over me. I really need to get the gate fixed so I can lock people out.
It’s been three long days since I fired Winnie and she broke up with me.
And at least once a day, some Sheeter wanders in here to check in, which usually turns into a good hour of conversation I don’t want.
Yesterday, Judge Judie sent moonshine by way of Burt on his lunch break from security at the courthouse.
The day before that, it was the Bobs, who gave their two cents times ten about beer.
Today, I guess it’s Big Mo, here to critique my cat-catching.
“What won’t work?”
“That canned stuff.” Big Mo crouches near me, then opens a small container, pulling out something I can’t quite identify. It smells disgusting. Mo makes some kind of quiet whistle with his teeth and holds out his hand.
Talk about not working. There’s no way this one-eyed orange cat is going to just walk right up and—Oh my gosh! It IS working.
It’s more than a little infuriating to see the Orange Cyclops sidling up to the tall, bearded cook within seconds. As I watch, OC sniffs Mo’s outstretched hand, then starts eating from it.
Right from his hand!
“What is that?”
“Raw liver,” Big Mo says.
Disgusting . “I wouldn’t have thought to try that.” I tried canned cat food. Canned human food—tuna and salmon and chicken. Catnip. Today I came back full circle with a more expensive kind of canned food, the one with the fancy cats in all the ads.
The Orange Cyclops apparently has an even more refined palate. Because he dines on raw liver.
“Your turn,” Big Mo says. “There’s more in the little container.”
I stare down at the liver. I’m not sure I’ve ever looked at liver. I’ve definitely never touched it. And I don’t want to now.
You’re doing this for Winnie. You can do this for Winnie.
When Meatloaf sang his famous song, proclaiming he would do anything for love except for THAT, I have to wonder if the that was pick up raw liver in his hand to tame a stray cat for a woman . If so, that would be oddly specific … and where Meatloaf and I differ.
Because I’m going for it, despite the way my stomach turns as I pick up the raw meat. Raw organs? Whatever.
Trying to ignore the texture, which will give me nightmares for months, I remember my goal: to get Winnie back. Getting Winnie back is worth touching raw liver. Fact.
Am I ridiculous for fixating on this scrappy, stray cat as a way to apologize to Winnie? Probably. Pat told me I’m being stupid, and if Pat says it …
But this cat is Winnie’s white whale, as she refers to him. Maybe it’s extreme (or extremely stupid), but I feel like catching and taming this cat is symbolic of … something. I just can’t shake the idea. Which is why I’m crouching in my warehouse, holding out a slimy hunk of liver.
“Just sit,” Big Mo says. “Let him come to you on his terms.”
I sit, grumbling silently about the idea of doing anything according to a cat’s terms. But Big Mo knows what he’s doing because the Orange Cyclops approaches me, his one eye wary.
My heart starts to thud in my chest, and sweat beads on my lower back.
I’m not nervous about the cat. I’ve already got claw marks up my arms and one on my cheek.
It’s more the idea that this might not work.
And, really, the bigger picture of what’s at stake here: Winnie might not want to forgive me, orange cat or no.
Or, she might forgive me, but not want to try a relationship with me for real.
The Orange Cyclops sniffs my hand, but he’s taking longer to warm up to me than he did Big Mo. “What am I doing wrong?” I ask, keeping my voice low and even.
“Just relax. He’s checking you out.”
“No offense, but you’re a lot scarier than me.”
Big Mo chuckles. “Yes, but I’m not the one who’s been terrorizing him and trying to trap him in a cage.”
Touché. Trap him in a cage, trap him in a bag, shoot him with a tranquilizer dart—which was totally Collin’s idea. It ended with Pat shooting Collin in the leg with the gun, which didn’t knock him out, but did make him loopy—and also strangely good at chess—for a few hours.
He ended up spending a few days here, taking the first break from his gym since he opened years back. We all sat down and had a conversation about Dark Horse, and everything felt … lighter. As though just telling them all what I’d been holding inside for so long loosened something in me.
I don’t look forward to dealing with my family more, but with the addition of Kyoko—one more instance of Winnie pushing in the best way—I think it will be fine.
I almost keeled over when Kyoko showed up for an interview that I hadn’t scheduled for a position I didn’t plan to fill.
But within five minutes of being in the space and talking to me, she suggested a glass wall between the brewing tanks and the bar.
It will still give people a full view of the process, but it will allow me to brew in peace.
I hired Kyoko on the spot.
“You’ve got to earn back trust,” Mo says, drawing me back into the moment. I don’t point out that I never had the cat’s trust to begin with. I’m not sure Mo is still talking about the cat. “It starts with you taking initiative, putting yourself out there. Then, sometimes there’s a lot of waiting.”
The Orange Cyclops delicately takes a bite of the raw meat in my hand. His whiskers tickle my palm, and I do my best to stay very, very still until he’s finished. His rough tongue licks my hand clean. It’s a weird feeling, but surprisingly, I don’t mind.
Instead of backtracking like I expect, the OC stands in front of me, sniffing the air and staring with that one yellow eye. I’m wholly shocked when Big Mo swoops in, grabbing the cat by the scruff of his neck. The cat goes limp.
“What was all that about earning trust?” I say, getting to my feet as Mo secures the cat in the carrier I purchased earlier this week. He hands it to me.
“Wasn’t talking about the cat.”
I glance in the carrier and the thing hisses at me. “What do I do now? The thing hates me.”
Big Mo chuckles, getting his empty liver container and heading for the door. “Rome didn’t fall in a day. It’s going to take more than one bite of liver to endear him to you.”
Is it going to take more than a groveling apology, a declaration of love, and a one-eyed cat to endear Winnie back to me?
“Any other advice?” I clear my throat. “About cats.”
“Baby steps,” Mo says. “Patience and discipline.”
“I don’t want her to think I’m ignoring her.”
“So, don’t ignore her,” Mo says, and I feel like a total punk kid being schooled by Mr. Miyagi. Mo meets my eyes again. “Baby steps,” he repeats.
And when he’s gone, leaving me alone with a hissing cat in a carrier, I slide my phone out of my pocket and spend way too long composing way too dumb of a text to Winnie.
Baby steps .